


Mates

by sue_denimme



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sue_denimme/pseuds/sue_denimme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Donna's thoughts about traveling together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mates

**Author's Note:**

> This is a splicing of two companion pieces called "A Funny Old Life" (Donna's bit) and "Someone to Stop You" (the Doctor's bit). They are still up separately on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind, and on my LJ.
> 
> Spoilers for Season 4.

She finds it hard to believe now that in all those months of poking her nose into every riddle and rumor and woo-woo conspiracy theory she could find, whether she could afford the money and time or not, on the off -- _very_ off -- chance that she might just possibly run into him again, somehow she had never actually thought much about what it would be like when or if she ever succeeded.

Now she thinks that it's just as well she didn't, because it would have been pointless. Whatever she might have imagined, had she taken the time to do so, it would not even have come anywhere close to the truth.

Pompeii is a revelation for her. She'd seen his face as he was destroying the Racnoss, and it had been the most frightening thing about that whole mad adventure. When he had invited her to come with him afterward, his eyes all big and hopeful and brown, all she could see was the picture, freshly burned onto her brain, of how those same eyes had looked, staring coldly down as the rain fell and the fires raged and the spider-queen wailed. He had looked anything but human then; he had looked like something she could only call a god, a being exercising power over life and death, with no ability to be moved even by his own emotions, let alone those of others.

After Pompeii, she knows better. It's not power at all, but a choice that is thrust upon him over and over again, that he has to make because there's no one else. Push a lever, or not. Let twenty thousand people die, or an entire world. She looks into those eyes again and sees something she'd missed before. Making these choices _hurts_ him. And he has been making them for a very long time. Suddenly she understands, and it all seems so unfair that it brings tears to her eyes and makes her want to scream.

So she does the only thing she can think of. She puts her hands over his, and he gazes at her in something close to wonder. Has no one ever shared this burden with him before?

Their joined hands press down. Together.

It's not all doomed cities and horrible choices. Sometimes the paths are clear, like on the Ood-Sphere. There, there is only one right thing to do, and it's obvious. They set themselves a goal. They accomplish it. That's the good bit.

Yet something about the whole situation gets to her anyway. She's always sort of assumed that the far future would be more or less like it was on Star Trek, that humans would be finer and nobler and just _better_. But no. They're not. They're more sophisticated, but they're still driven by greed. Still all too willing to turn a blind eye to suffering that they had caused and allowed to continue. Still... human. It puts another dent in the image she once held of what traveling with him would be.

She tells him she wants to go home, and the stricken look on his face instantly makes her wish she could unspeak her words. Then something happens and she doesn't get the chance to take them back. She hates herself. She feels small and cowardly and childish. Maybe she really should go home, if this is how she's going to react when the universe fails to live up to her ideals. But later, after the day is won, when he asks if she still wants to, she tells him no, and she doesn't miss his look of relief.

By the time they save their third planet together, she's beginning to wonder if there really is such a thing as a trouble magnet. Because if so, he's it.

Yet if she needed further proof of how the possibility of her leaving affects him, she gets it during their jaunt back on Earth. Okay, it's entertaining and rather gratifying to watch his eyes go big and dewy again while he's pouring out his little farewell speech, and she can't resist teasing him unmercifully when he realizes he's got it wrong. But still, she'd no idea he felt that way until now. He needs her. And the thought of a nine-hundred-year old time-traveling, world-saving alien genius needing her, Donna Noble, fills her with awe. Not that she'd ever let him see that -- his ego's big enough as it is, thank you.

When her gramps asks her if she's safe, she's not sure what to say.

She thinks of everything she's been through so far since finding the Doctor again. No, it's definitely not safe. And she's not even thinking about the physical danger to life and limb. It's her innocence that has died a little more with each adventure. But that might actually be a good thing. She's starting to see the universe as it is. As the Doctor sees it. The bad and the good, the blemishes and the beauty. She's coming to love it as he does, not just because she's in it, but because it's worth loving and worth saving. What are her illusions compared to that?

And she's got him to thank for it. Her spaceman, her brilliant, sad, silly, pompous, mysterious, mad Martian. Her mate, her partner in crime.

"He's amazing," she tells her gramps. "He's just... dazzling. And never tell him I said that. But I'd trust him with my life."

Later, as she's watching him save yet another planet, it occurs to her to wonder whether the Doctor is the magnet, or if he's the steel.

It doesn't matter, she decides. Because she's going to travel with that man forever.

*****

"It's a funny old life in the TARDIS."

All right, so it's not a very good warning. He's great at handing out warnings to the villains. But to people inviting themselves into his life? Not so much. He's not sure she even heard, with her babbling about injections and Cambodia.

He's never had someone _look_ for him before. Not for the sole purpose of joining him, anyway. They've always tended to just stumble in by accident. One or two of them have been assigned to him by persons in authority, or otherwise foisted on him. But none of them has ever actually methodically hunted him down. None of them have come complete with tons of luggage, all packed and ready to go. None of them have had a _hatbox_ , for goodness' sake.

Obviously no one has told her that this is not in the script.

What in all the worlds is happening? Yes, he did invite her once, but she turned him down. Seemed glad to get rid of him. Told him to "find someone", obviously meaning "someone other than me". Well, he supposes he can't really blame her for that. Here she was, getting married to a man she loved, who loved her -- or she thought he did, anyway -- and she gets beamed against her will into a spaceship billions of miles away. Not exactly the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

But now here she is, standing in the doorway of the TARDIS, looking at him all eager and expectant, and what the hell is suddenly so damn hard about saying the word "no"?

At least she's not attracted to him. At all. Which is a relief. The "long streak of nothing" comment is a bit excessive, perhaps. Insulting, even. He happens to think this is one of his more charismatic, not to mention aesthetically pleasing, incarnations. But still, it's reassuring. He's not repeating the mistake he made with Martha, who'd claimed that she only went for humans, yet was flirting with him even as she said it. He'd chosen to ignore that, and look where it got both of them.

A mate really is all he wants. Not a charge. Not a surrogate granddaughter. Not a pupil or a hanger-on or an admirer. Not a lover, either. Just a friend. Someone to run with. To experience the universe with. To make him remember the small picture when he's too busy looking at the big one. To be his sounding board, his anchor, his touchstone. To keep him from being _too_ much of a prat. That's not so much to ask, is it?

He does have a hard time making her understand why they can't save Pompeii, but when she finally does get it, the simplicity of her gesture, pressing the lever with him, takes his breath away. He's had to do a lot of unpleasant things over the centuries, for the sake of the greater good, and his companions have generally unhappily accepted them, but none of them have ever actually chosen to share the burden. But she doesn't even ask, or wait for him to do so. She just steps up, and puts her hands on his.

It's almost frightening, in fact, how quickly he's come to depend on her insight, her toughness, her compassion, her sanity.

And it's mystifying, how blind she is to her own magnificence. When she's faced with a task beyond her experience, she's terrified that she's not up to it, that she'll let him down. But she comes through brilliantly, every time. Yet she continues to dismiss herself.

He can do lots of things. But he can't make her see what she is to him. No matter how much he'd like to, he can't erase the words "just a temp" from her vocabulary. All he can do is try to replace them. If he could give every single person in her life who ever drilled them into her head, starting with her mother, a good taste of the Oncoming Storm, he would. He'll just have to hope that maybe one day she'll see, that she'll believe his words and not theirs.

He's startled to realize how much it feels like a punch to the gut when he thinks she's had enough and she's going home. Fortunately, it only happens twice. Once is on the Ood-Sphere, the other on Earth, both before they've even had more than five adventures together. The second time, he makes rather an arse of himself, going on about how she's saved his life in so many ways and all that, and she gives him just enough rope before informing him that he's a great big outer-space dunce. Which is exactly what he feels like. But she never again hints that she might want to leave. As if she recognizes the distress the thought causes him.

She's there when he gains and loses a daughter. She kisses him to shock cyanide out of his system, and doesn't use it as an excuse to change their relationship. She lets him know it's all right not to be "all right". She heals him, stands up for him, laughs at him.

She knows there were others before her, and she doesn't get snarky about it. She doesn't go all quiet and downcast when he mentions Rose.

She doesn't look at him and see only what she wants to see. A tour guide, a mentor, an eccentric uncle, an imaginary friend, a magical savior, a love object, a god. She sees _him_ , more clearly than anyone has ever seen him before, even Romana. She sees who he is, what he's done.

And she wants to stay with him anyway.

The only thing he wishes is that he hadn't heard her say "forever".

 

~end


End file.
